Grand Theft Auto: Tornado Valley
by Manuel-Leon Martinic
Summary: A teacher in a midwestern state is cast into the world of mob violence and organized crime after his entire family was murdered by a Windy City gang, the Bloodrose. An old friend offers to help, but is a life of crime for retribution really worth it?
1. Chapter 1

1This is a fan story for the _Grand Theft Auto_ series, set in an area reminiscent of areas in Illinois and Iowa. The general area is known as Tornado Valley, but its key areas include Windy City (a smaller Chicago spinoff), Bonneville (a spinoff of Joliet, which was named for Juliet of _Romeo and Juliet_, so too is Bonneville named for Bonnie of Bonnie and Clyde) and a few small surrounding areas from Michigan and Iowa. Seeing as I'm most familiar with these areas, this story reflects those places.

An explanation list will follow, with car names and equivalents, area explanations, and character detail.

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**Chapter One: If I Die Before I Wake...**

The phone rang and beckoned a masculine hand to pick it up. The voice over the phone was not hushed, nor urgent–neither joyous or melancholic. The tone was strictly buisnesslike, masked by a deformer, and had a simple order.

_Carry out the plan. Bring him to me in fear._

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Finally, the last child was put to bed. Lynne sighed, contented that her children now drifted off to dreamland. However, one minor detail gnawed away at the back of her head–

–_he's not home yet. _

It was this sole fact that kept her awake this summer night. Nothing completely calmed her nerves–not the melatonin tea, not the cool breeze sifting through the windows of the log home, not even the picture of him with her on their honeymoon. Every creeping shadow caused her to worry, every little noise, every change in the wind.

She felt like something horrible was going to happen. She wanted him home, to protect her from the night's hidden demons.

Sighing, she stepped out onto the porch to seek solace in the light of the full moon, still pursued by those unseen dangers of the night–the very same that she feared were only in her mind.

The fear that held a silenced pistol to her head and fired before she even noticed.

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The black Ottumwa strolled into the driveway of the darkened house, slowly inching into the yawning garage. The engine silences, the lights die, and roger stepped out of the car, shutting the door ever so quietly. It wasn't his fault he was late, but he knew his wife would let him have it.

He quietly entered the basement, inching his way across to the stairs. Climbing the stairs he poked his head out into the hallway, then the bedroom.

No one.

_Odd, _he thought, _she would normally be waiting around here._

And then he noticed the breeze. The door to the porch was ajar, the curtains fluttering gently in the wind. Past the curtains, he could make out a dark...pool of something spilling out onto the porch.

He started toward the door, and the closer he got, the more that was revealed.

It was his wife.

She was dead, lying in a pool of her own blood, a single crimson rose laid across her heart. Gasping and trying his damnedest to hold back his tears, he knelt down to try and help his deceased wife to no avail. She was cold and limp–the deed was done. Sobbing like an infant, he laid his wife down gently, kissing her forehead. Then the thought hit him like a brick.

_The children._

He bolted up the stairs to his kids' rooms. Johnathan. Dead. Ashe. Dead. Autumn. Dead. The pain striking his heart was unbearable. His family, brutally murdered, a rose placed on each corpse. Four sweet, innocent souls, murdered in cold blood, for what seemed no reason.

Roger Elmhurst fell to his knees and wept.

His life was over.


	2. Chapter 2

1**Chapter 2–An Old Friend**

The next morning, Roger Elmhurst walked into the Raspberry Terrace Elementary School where he worked, and quit his job as a fifth grade teacher five minutes before class was slated to start. It was abrupt, too, as he walked in, spoke two words, and left without another look back. His coworkers were stunned, and could barely pick up the phones to send in an emergency substitute.

Afterwards, he climbed into his truck and calmly drove to the local gun shop, where he purchased a 9mm pistol and its respective ammunition, with full intent to use it all. After that, he headed to the local bar, where he spent the rest of the day, drinking.

That night, Roger had lost count of how many he had downed. He didn't care, he decided, peering into a murky brown shot glass full of rum. Downing it, he slammed it down on the counter and beckoned the bartender to bring him more. The bartender, an older, balding man, stepped over to him, polishing a glass, eyeing Roger with slight contempt and worry.

"I've lost count of how many you've drank," said the bartender.

"Not nearly enough," came the drunken, sorrowed reply.

"Well, perhaps that's enough for you, son," he said, taking the empty shot glass.

Roger grabbed the bartender's hand to stop him, though he didn't know why. The bartender being much stronger than he, yanked his arm free from the drunkard's grasp. Roger let his head hit the bar, defeated.

_I want to die._

Across the room, a young Hispanic woman had taken notice while in the middle of a pool game. She handed her cue to a nearby biker, instructed him to finish for her, and approached Roger. She motioned to the bartender.

"Tequila for me, Eli, and a coffee for my friend." She sat down on a stool next to Roger, who lifted his weary head.

"Sorry, _senorita,_ don't need any other friend right now than a bottle of Captain Jack and my little friend here, Mister Glock..." He casually reached into his jacket and drunkenly waved a pistol in the air. Quickly, the woman grabbed Roger's arm with one hand, taking the pistol with the other, before pocketing it herself.

"Are you crazy?" she asked, her voice a loud whisper. "You wave that thing in here, you either get arrested or killed. And I know my friend Bruno there is itching to throw someone out tonight." She motioned to the large, round skinhead of a biker whom she had charged with finishing her game.

Eli the bartender returned with the couple's drinks, taking care to push the coffee toward Roger to perhaps entice him to drink it.

The woman waited for Eli to walk away, and returned to her conversation. "Do you not remember me, Roger?" she asked.

"I'm too drunk to remember anything," he said, taking a sip from his coffee, before adding, "at least that's going right for me."

"Roger, it's me. Serena Rosa?"

He cocked an eyebrow.

"From high school?"

"Oh, yeah. _That_–erm...Serosa Mina."

Serena sighed. "Well, obviously someone's life has ended up in shambles. What happened?"

Roger fought back the tears. The alcohol wasn't working. He motioned to the bartender. "Keep! Can I get some rum?" Eli ignored him.

"Yeah, ignore _me,_ you fat son of a bitch..."

Serena punched Roger in the arm. "What is wrong with you?"

He looked at her, massaging his injury. "Me? What the fuck's wrong with _you?_"

Bruno glanced over at Serena, flexing his hands on the pool stick. Serena waved him off.

"Roger Elmhurst, you're going to tell me what's wrong whether you like it or not."

He sighed. _That's it, I'm pissed._ He wanted to tell her off, but instead, he told her everything.

And she looked at him, horrified.

"...and now I'm planning to spend the night shooting shit up with my little gun friend there, and then, when I'm down to one bullet, plug it into my skull, okay?" He didn't notice Serena looking at him that way until now. "What?"

Serena shook her head. "Eli, we're taking off. Put his and my drinks on my tab."

Eli shook his head. "You sure? He's got a pretty big tab running."

"Just do it, _cabron_!" she shouted, ushering the drunken Roger out the door, who was clearly not pleased with this.

Outside, he turned on her. "What the fuck you pushin' me around for?"

She slapped him, and pointed a sharp feminine digit in his face. "Because you're being a complete _pendejo._ Don't you see? They've targeted you because of who you know. They took your family as leverage!"

"Sorry? Who's they?"

That afforded him another slap. "The Bloodrose, _gringo_! They know you know my boss, and they want you to take them to her, whether you know where she is or not!"

He shook his head. "That makes no sense, mate."

Another slap.

"Ow, that hurt!" he said, rubbing his cheek.

She glanced around. "Where's your truck?"

"What?" Roger was confused as hell. Why did she want his truck?

She pulled out the gun she took from him. "Where's your fucking truck?"

He retreated. "Gah! Around the corner. Black Pagoda Ottawa. Good god, what's gotten into you, bitch?"

"Give me your keys and follow me!"

Now afraid of the death he sought, he dug in his pockets for his truck keys, handing them over to Serena.

"Thank you," she said, lowering the pistol. "You're drunk–I'll drive."

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The cab of the truck stopped spinning so much, and Roger began to regain his bearings.

"Okay," he said, "So why are the Bloodrose after me? They're the mob, an I'm a schoolteacher."

Serena sighed. "Do you remember Payton Cross?" she asked.

Roger nodded. "Yeah. Our friend from high school. We had that gang in Asomana. She and I...dated once."

"Yes. Well, Payton never really lost her love for the gang life."

Roger cocked an eyebrow. "What? What do you mean?"

"I mean exactly what I said, _idioto_. Payton Cross started the notorious Raven Gang in Windy City."

Roger was shocked. "I thought she was a lawyer for a large firm."

Serena nodded. "That's her day job and cover. She's been the Raven Gang's leader for the past seven years, and me and your old buddy Martin Shaw have been her top executives."

"Martin Shaw? Isn't he a Marine?"

"Dishonorably discharged for killing his CO in Iraq. The CO wanted him to kill unarmed civilians, Shaw refused, was threatened, and ended up whipping out his Desert Eagle and capping his ass."

Roger shook his head. "Wow. Was he court-marshaled"

Serena nodded. "You bet your ass. Was going to death row for it, too, if Cross hadn't paid the obscenely huge bail. Shaw's working off his debt to her now."

Roger shook his head again. His life and the lives of his friends...all differed from what they had set out to do. What had happened in this horrible world for any of them to deserve what they got?

He shook off the thought as Serena looked over to him.

"You alright?"

He nodded. "Just...grasping reality." A moment's silence, and then he asked, "So where are we going?"

Serena looked straight ahead, as if in a trance as she answered. "We're going to go see her."


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three: Payton Cross**

The sign hung above the highway read Deoda Rapids, Next Right, and flew overhead as Serena pulled the obsidian truck into the proper lane for the offramp. Roger looked at her.

"I though Cross worked out of Windy?"

Serena nodded. "She does, but her influence spreads, like any gang worth its salt. Payton needs places to hang out, since people are always out for her skin. She also needs to check up on her business partners."

Roger nodded. It was practical. Payton always did have a lot on her plate, anyway, and managed to look after it all.

Roger looked Serena over, admiring how much she had changed over the years. One thing caught his eye—the hint of a tattoo snaking its way down her right bicep. It looked like tribal barbed wire, but it was too dark to tell what it was. Serena caught him eyeing her.

"What?" she asked. "Getting excited? You always were quick on the uptake in some areas." Her tone was playful; teasing.

Roger chuckled. "Well, I suppose. You seem…different now. More empowered. More…"

"Confident?" she finished for him. He nodded, she smiled. "Well, a life of crime can do that, I guess. You lead a group in dealing drugs, pimpin' hoes, and laying out a few motherfuckers, you get pretty damned full of yourself. Like helium to a balloon."

Roger laughed. It was an odd analogy, but it worked. Serena looked at him again. "You know, Payton will probably find a use for you. She might like the whole broken-shell-of-a-man-with-nothing-left-to-live-for thing you got goin'."

"I disagree," Roger retorted, shaking his head. "I don't think I could do any of that."

Serena laughed. "Good! You think Cross would start you off high up? You have to be fucking loopy! You'd probably start off doing bitch tasks and, provided the cops don't throw you in jail for more bitch work at the hands of a big black guy named Bubba, might give you dominion over more territory."

Serena pulled the Ottumwa up to a black glass building on Sixth, parked and shut off the engine, turning to Roger. "Listen," she said, all seriousness in her tone, her brown eyes boring into his, "she is a very difficult person to work for. Watch what you say, and perhaps you can keep your head longer." She looked around the street, and pushed open her door.

"Let's go."

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She slipped the black leather gloves onto her fingers, stretching her hands into them for a snug fit. She sighed heavily. "Mister Leonards, are we going to have trouble with remembering what happened to my money…or are we going to cooperate?" She turned to face a profusely sweating man in his mid-thirties, bound to a mahogany chair.

"I did nothing to your money!" he shouted, his voice torn between a whine and frustration.

"Ah, ah ah, wrong answer," she returned, wagging her finger like a leather metronome. "We both know what happens next, Derrick." She slapped him with her gloved hands—once with the left, again with the right. The man began to sob like an infant.

"Aww, does the baby want Mommy to comfort him?"

"You sadistic bitch!" he cried between sobs. Another slap. The two goombas that accompanied her winced. They knew that, were he not tied to the chair, the third slap would have decked him.

The door to the office opened, and Serena Rosa stepped in. Payton flipped her hair back and smiled. "Good news, I hope?"

Serena nodded. "Very! Look who I found milling about, looking to kill himself!" She motioned to the man walking in the door.

_Roger Elmhurst._

She smiled. "Be with you folks in a minute." She turned back to Derrick Leonards. "May banker here needs to tell me where the fuck my _MONEY_ went!" On money, she slapped him with enough force to knock him over in the chair. Taking off her gloves, she motioned to her lackeys to continue the interrogation. Pocketing the gloves, she walked toward Serena and Roger.

"Roger Elmhurst. It's been years."

He nodded, acknowledging her. "Payton Cross. You've…changed."

She laughed. "If you mean 'become an underground success,' yes, I have." She pocketed the gloves in her black trenchcoat. "What about you? You get what you sought in life?"

He sighed. "Yeah. A beautiful wife, and three wonderful children."

Payton smiled. "That's excellent. How are they?" She failed to notice Serena motioning wildly to stop her inquiry. Or rather, she chose not to pay heed to it.

"They…were all killed yesterday. I came home to find each one shot once in the head."

Payton bowed her head. "I…am sorry to hear that, Roger. Do you know who did it?"

Serena stepped in. "The Bloodrose mob. As I said, I stopped this one from getting so slobbering drunk that he'd go kill himself."

Payton smiled.. Well, good. We could use someone like you, Elmhurst. I've been looking for a few good men to do my dirty work."

Serena leaned over to whisper in Roger's ear. "Told you so."

Payton glanced back to Leonards, extracting and donning the gloves yet again. "But first, I'm going to get back what's mine. Come see me in the morning, the Roosevelt Hotel lobby. We have much to discuss."

As Serena and Roger left, Roger couldn't help but notice a prominent zipping sound, and the screaming of a grown man.


End file.
